


Were You Watching Back?

by teaandjumpers



Series: I Was Watching the Whole Time [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Dubious Consent, M/M, Self-Hatred, Shame, johniarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:56:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjumpers/pseuds/teaandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock grapple with the aftermath of Moriarty's visit, and Moriarty continues to pursue John.</p><p>  <i>“You better be careful, John,” says Moriarty from above him, his voice suddenly serious. “Or I might not give you back.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Were You Watching Back?

John jumped back into his regular daily routine quickly, so quickly that it had Sherlock worried. John came down the morning after Moriarty's visit and set about making tea as if nothing had happened.

The night of Moriarty's visit, just after the consulting criminal had left, John had stayed on the sofa for an hour, Sherlock's coat strewn over him and his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He didn't cry; he just stared with blank eyes that gave Sherlock a chill like nothing ever had. He pleaded with John to try and get up, get clean, go to bed, something, but John didn't move, barely blinked. Sherlock had given up on trying to get John to move and knelt at his side and stroked his hair till John let out a shuddering gasp for air and cried out, "Sherlock."

Sherlock helped John sit up and put his pants back on. It was difficult. John's legs were shaking badly and it took a huge effort on John's part to lift his bottom half off the sofa so that Sherlock could pull the cotton up the man's thighs. He then draped his coat around John's shoulders and helped him climb up the stairs, one trying step at a time, to John's bedroom.

He put John to bed, and when Sherlock was about to pull away to call Mycroft, to call Mrs. Hudson, or maybe even Lestrade, he felt like he needed to tell someone, he needed someone to tell him what to do because he couldn't--he didn't know what to do, John pulled at the sleeve of his shirt and asked in a quiet and broken voice for Sherlock to stay.

And of course Sherlock did. He wanted to curl around John, to shield him from the rest of the world and tuck his head into the crook of John's neck and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but he wasn't sure if that degree of contact would be welcome. He suddenly felt uncertain about a great deal of things and it made him want to itch his wrists and take a cold, mind-clearing shower. He didn't though. Instead he crawled onto John's double and watched the flicker of John's eyelids and counted the number of breaths John took until they evened out and his friend fell asleep.

The next day Sherlock had woken to find the bed empty. He heard the kettle whistling downstairs and he rushed down, he didn't want to leave John alone, and found John at the stove cursing about the mess in the kitchen.

"John?" Sherlock asked softly. "Are you alright?"

"No, Sherlock," said John. "I'm not alright. Not when there are dirty plates everywhere and the milk's gone bad, again, because someone forgot to put it back in the refrigerator."

John didn't say anything else. He didn't even finish making his tea. He just grabbed his coat and left, and that's how things had been for the past month. John avoiding Sherlock except when he wanted to berate him for something, usually for something trivial like Sherlock leaving his robe lying out in the living room or not shutting the television set. In addition to avoiding Sherlock, John was also avoiding the sofa where it happened, giving the piece of furniture a wide berth when he passed by. He seemed to be avoiding the flat as well, staying out late, eating out alone, only coming home to sleep, if he came home at all.

And Sherlock wasn’t the only one John had become increasingly irritable with. He had raised his voice his voice to Mrs. Hudson when she asked him where he was going one night. He had been sent home early from work for yelling at an unruly patient of his. And just a few hours ago, when Lestrade stopped by to drop off information for a case and placed an imploring hand on John’s shoulder, John had violently shrugged it off and yelled, “Don’t touch me!”

Sherlock decided that that was enough. John's privacy was important to John, as important as it was to Sherlock, but Sherlock was out of his depth. He bit his pride and called his brother.

There is a long pause after Sherlock finishes explaining the situation to Mycroft. His brother says he suspected as much, considering John’s increased aggression, testosterone, and his increasingly indifferent attitude towards Sherlock. He then says something Sherlock never thought he’d hear his brother say: “He needs to see a therapist, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is inclined to agree, even though he doesn’t want to. He decides to bring it up with John, that is, whenever John chooses to come down and grace Sherlock with his presence. He spent what little time he did in the flat up in his room.

When John does appear, Sherlock notes the man’s black v-neck and fitted jeans. Going out then. Again.

Sherlock follows John down the stairs and stands in front of the flat’s door, blocking John’s path. “You’re not going,” he says.

“I am,” says John refusing to look at Sherlock’s face. He busies himself with putting on his coat and checking the knot of his shoelaces. “If you’re so concerned, come with me.”

Clearly, John doesn’t expect Sherlock to go with him. Sherlock detests clubs, and John is banking on that right now, which is why his eyebrows raise in surprise when Sherlock grabs his coat, opens the front door and says, “After you.”

The club is a swanky place with more people sitting on the leather sofas than dancing. John allocates a seat for him and Sherlock and orders himself a shot of something called a .44 Magnum. He doesn’t bother ordering Sherlock anything and slugs down his drink and two more when they arrive.

“Oh, no. Thank you,” says Sherlock. “I’ll order my own drink.”

“I’m here to get laid,” says John ignoring Sherlock’s remark. “Please don’t come near me if I’m with someone attractive.”

John had never been so frank about his sexual exploits. There was the “trying to get off with Sarah” comment, but that was a one-time thing that was thrown at a moment of frustration. Typically, John tiptoed around the subject of sex when Sherlock was concerned.

“You don’t need to do this,” says Sherlock quietly.

“Why?” asks John. He sidles up to Sherlock and moves close enough that Sherlock can smell the absinthe on his breath. “Are you offering to take me home?”

Sherlock recoils at that. John has never propositioned him before, not even as a joke, and something about the forced sultriness of John’s voice makes Sherlock feel uncomfortable.

John barks out a sharp laugh that makes Sherlock’s stomach unpleasantly boil. “You should see your face,” says John. “Pruder than a Victorian nun’s.”

“John,” says Sherlock, but John ignores him and gets up to leave.

“I’ll see you back at the flat, Sherlock.”

 

 

John makes his way towards a man that has been eyeing him for the past fifteen minutes. The bloke has broad shoulders and thick, muscled arms that make John’s belly burn. It’s been three days since his last fuck and John needs it. He needs to filled, held down, and hollowed out. He’s aching for it. He’s gotten off seven times in the past three days, even going as far as knocking one out in a supply closet at the hospital, but it hasn’t been enough.

His libido has never been so active. Not even when he was in a teenager. Everything around him makes him want to fuck and be fucked.

Part of him feels guilty for leaving Sherlock and speaking to him in that way. But the other part, the part that seemed to be guiding his dick, tells him that Sherlock deserves it. He deserves to be left in the dark and punished. It was always those around Sherlock who were caught in the crossfire. Sherlock wasn’t the one who got tied up by a gang of smugglers, or had a bomb strapped to his chest, or –

John wasn’t going to think of that. He was going to think of the warm body that was currently pressing against his and the lust ridden voice whispering in his ear, “Come on. There’s a room in the back.”

The man with the big arms smells amazing. He has a faint muskiness about him that makes John’s mouth water. He navigates John with an assured hand to a room marked ‘Special Admittance Only’.

“Do the owners owe you a favor,” asks John.

“Sort of,” says the man. “The owners do whatever my boss wants. They’re terrified of him.”

The room is decked out in a hideous red. The carpet, the curtains, the throw pillows. Everything but the black leather couches and the coffee table is red. But the place is clean and carpeted, which is more than John can say about some of the other places he’d found himself kneeling in during the last few weeks.

“Who’s your boss?” asks John as he unbuckles the man’s belt. “A mobster?”

“Guess again, Johnny boy,” says a voice from behind him, one that makes John’s insides seize and hands shake. He stumbles onto his feet and pulls out a switchblade he has started to carry around.

He whips the blade out with a flick of his wrist and rushes towards Moriarty, intent on slicing the maniacs throat.

He is inches away from Moriarty when strong hands grip him from behind—the same hands he had envisioned holding him down and fucking him just minutes before. The man chuckles into John’s ear and John sees red. He struggles against the man’s hold, bucking wildly, but the man has him held by the arms and John can’t get the leverage he needs to pull away. The man moves one of his hands down John’s arm and twists John’s wrist, making John cry out in pain and drop the blade.

“Isn’t he adorable,” says Moriarty’s henchman. “I’d love to fuck that pink mouth of his. What do you say boss? My dick’s been twitchin’ like a hound’s.”

John stills and looks up at Moriarty. The consulting criminal has his upper lip curled in disgust. When he speaks, his voice is light as that of a teenage girl's. “Don’t you ever talk to me about your dick again. In fact, don’t ever talk again.”

Moriarty steps up to them both and picks up the still open blade. He considers it for a moment, running his finger across the handle before lunging towards the other man and taking a swift swipe at him with John’s knife. Something warm splatters against John’s neck and as he hears an all to familiar gurgling sound behind him, he realizes it’s blood.

John keeps his hands up and tries to determine whether he can wrangle the knife out of Moriarty’s hand and gain the advantage.

“I wouldn’t try it, Johnny boy,” says Moriarty, leaning down and wiping the blood off the blade on the dead man’s blouse. “We’re not alone.”

John doesn’t doubt it. Not for a second. He’d bet there were cameras in the room and gunmen hiding just behind that curtain.

“Though I do love that you’d be willing to try.” He holds the knife against John’s chest, pressing the point between John’s pectorals. “It’s incredibly sexy.”

Moriarty is smiling one of his sickly, sweet smiles and John realizes for the first time that the man isn’t all that much taller than him. For some reason, when John thinks of Moriarty he imagines the man as being much taller, almost as tall as Sherlock. John realizes he could take Moriarty. He knows it. But something other than the threat of being taken out by one of Moriarty's men makes John hesitant.

“It’s so hard to get people to respect you these days,” Moriarty says changing the subject. “Even the grunts feel self-entitled.” He gives the body on the ground a soft kick. “Would someone come and get this neanderthal out of here,” he asks the empty room.

As soon as Moriarty finishes uttering the sentence, two burly men and one woman appear from behind the curtain to John’s left. The men drag the body through the curtain while the woman pulls out a handgun and levels it at John’s head.

“Oh, don’t mind her,” Moriarty says. “She’s only here to make sure you don’t overstep your boundaries. I know how punchy you like to get.”

John looks to the woman and takes her measure. Her hands are steady and she has a smirk plastered on her face. She barely looks twenty. She gives John a sly wink and then steps back a few paces all the while keeping the gun targeted on John. She doesn’t make the mistake of speaking like the other bloke did.

“Say what you will about… what was his name, doll face?”

“Rob,” the woman answers promptly.

“Right. Say what you will about Rob, but he was right about one thing.” Moriarty traces the curve of John’s bottom lip with his thumb. “You have a mouth begging to be fucked.”

John starts to panic. His breath comes out it sharp gasps and his hands start to shake. “No,” he says, not caring what Moriarty will do to him. “No, no, no. I won’t. Do what you want, but I won’t. Not again.”

“Oh, but you will,” says Moriarty. “I know you didn’t come here alone. Two of my people are with him right now, and if you don’t want him to join our newly departed friend, you’ll get on your knees and make use of that mouth of yours.”

John considers calling Moriarty’s bluff. He would never kill Sherlock; he’s obsessed with his flatmate. But the careless, impulsive way he sliced through his own man’s throat makes John aware of just how changeable the consulting criminal is. Still, he could say no. He could let Sherlock deal with whatever Moriarty throws at him. Lord knows John has had to.

But try as he might, John can’t abandon Sherlock. Not even after what happened. He would lay down his life for the other man.

“Strip,” says Moriarty. “I plan to make a night of this. Our last time was over too quickly.”

 

 

Sherlock sees John leave the main floor with a man and he has every intention of following him when someone grips him by the shoulder.

“Not so fast, my dear,” says an all too familiar voice from behind him.

Sherlock doesn’t waste anytime. He turns, grabs Moriarty by his shirt-front and pushes him against the nearest table. He leans in close to Moriarty’s face and hisses, “I will kill you.”

Moriarty just throws his head back and laughs. Two large bodies, one man and one woman, appear at Sherlock’s side and pull him off the consulting criminal. He is about to tell them that he works for the police and that they should apprehend Moriarty, but one quick glance at them tells Sherlock that these are Moriarty’s men.

Moriarty gets off the table and adjusts his suit. “Well, John has been getting lucky lately. How fortunate for him that I was able to bring out the cockslut in him. He must be over the moon.”

He turns to Sherlock and pats him on the cheek. “And you,” he says. “How do you feel when you’re at home, adjusting the strings to your violin while John has that pert little arse of his wrapped around a stranger’s prick.”

Someone brings Moriarty a shot of whiskey and he swallows it in one go. “Does it make you feel guilty? Because it should.”

Moriarty leans in close. “I fucked him because of you,” he says. “But I’m going to keep fucking him because he just takes it so well.”

He gives Sherlock a quick peck on the cheek and says, “See you soon, darling.”

 

 

The room is well ventilated and the cool air comes down in soft waves that chill John’s bare skin. His clothes are sitting in a pile at the opposite end of the room where Moriarty threw them. John has been kneeling now for about a minute, and his leg muscles are already starting to throb.

Moriarty is running a hand through John’s hair as he circles around him. “I’m going to have you on all fours, this time,” he says. He places another hand on John’s head and massages his scalp in a way he probably finds sensual. “I’m going to make sure you get carpet burn on your knees when I fuck you.”

He moves from behind John and stands in front of him with his crotch square at John’s eye level. “First things first, though.” He unbuckles his belt and lowers his fly, but he keeps his trousers on.

“How would you like this?” he asks John.

“I wouldn’t like it at all,” says John, knowing he shouldn’t but unable to bite back the reply.

John hears the slap before he feels it and then there is a low, chillingly tempered voice near his ear. “Should I tell you what I would like, John? I would like to put a leash on you and take you with me—to meetings, to vacations, to birthdays. I would lend you out to my associates and watch them fuck you. I would only ever let you eat food off my cock, so that when you think of it, you’d think of it as something you crave.”

A sharp fingernail follows the line of a tear on John’s cheek, making John look up at Moriarty. “How does that sound,” the man asks, his voice oddly—frighteningly sweet.

John looks over to the woman who still has the gun leveled at him. He was hoping to find some empathy there, but her darkened eyes and the way her mouth hangs open points to something else. John manages to get out a strangled, “Great. It sounds great.”

“Good,” says Moriarty, standing back up and eagerly moving his cock out from the slit in his pants. “And you better make it good or people start dying.”

He takes it in hand and presses it against John’s cheek. “Kiss it,” he says. “Kiss it like it’s his.”

John shuts his eyes and does as he is told. He lavishes Moriarty’s prick with a long, languid kiss that moves down the base of the man’s cock all the way to its tip. Moriarty makes an appreciative sound, almost like a gurgle, and fists his hands into John’s hair.

“Go on,” he says.

John can hardly believe he is doing this. He still can’t believe Moriarty wants this.

He licks the slit of the other man’s cock with the tip of his tongue. He then encircles the tip of it with his lips and sucks. He tucks his legs beneath his thighs in order to get more comfortable and then slowly inches his mouth down and over the length of the other man’s prick.

He repeats the motion twice, pressing his tongue against the underside of Moriarty’s cock. He takes in as much of Moriarty as he can and then pulls back and does it again. He picks up some speed, his mouth moving easily around Moriarty’s slickened cock.

John is turned on by this. He briefly wonders what’s wrong with him. He hates this man. He would happily tear out this man’s stomach with his bare hands, but right now, the way Moriarty’s cock keeps bumping against the back of John’s throat like a friendly knock, makes John want to try and swallow the whole of it.

With his own cock growing heavy between his legs, John tightens his lips around Moriarty and gives a lengthy, guttural groan. He gently places his hands around Moriarty’s hips and when he moves to swallow the length of the other man, he pulls Moriarty closer.

“You better be careful, John,” says Moriarty from above him, his voice suddenly serious. “Or I might not give you back.”

He’s looking down at John when he says this and John makes sure to keep his eyes open and fixed on the man as he relaxes his throat and takes in all of Moriarty. He breathes through his nose and lets Moriarty’s cock sit there for a moment, pressed against the ridges of his throat as John hums a little.

Moriarty snaps his hips backward pulling his cock out of John’s mouth. “Enough,” he yells. “That’s enough. Get on your hands and knees.”

John sits back on his knees and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He suddenly feels like there isn’t enough air in the room. He breathes heavily through his nose and with a final, shuddering breath he gets on his hands and knees.

For a moment, Moriarty does nothing. He doesn’t touch John. John doesn’t even hear him moving. Or breathing.

He’s never felt more vulnerable. Not even on that day at the pool when two men had wrangled him onto the locker room floor and strapped a bomb to his chest.

He is presenting himself, back turned and arse bare, to a madman.

In the long stretch of time it takes for Moriarty to run his hands down the sides of John’s hips, John wonders if Moriarty will kill him. He would fuck John. That was certain. But would it end there? He still had John’s knife. He could flay John’s skin and mark him if wanted to. He could take his henchman’s gun and fuck John with it. The thought makes John tremble, not entirely out of fear and it hits John, like an anvil, just how fucked up he is.

When Moriarty’s fingers skirt over his skin, John’s body shivers and his cock twitches. He hopes this escapes Moriarty’s notice, but of course it doesn’t.

“You know, I’ve been dreaming about this,” says Moriarty as he strokes John’s hips. “Whenever I had a particularly trying day, I would think of the sweet sounds I’d have you making.”

He positions the head of his cock at John’s entrance. It’s slickened with more than just John’s saliva and pre-cum, and that’s when John notes the smell of lightly scented oil. At least it wasn’t going to be a dry run, then.

“But I never, ever dreamed you’d want it this bad.”

Moriarty presses forward a little, not penetrating John, but just making his intentions and the girth of his cock known. John involuntarily pivots his hips backwards and clenches his arse cheeks around the tip of Moriarty’s cock.

“I don’t even need to prepare you. You’ve had so much cock stuffed up your arse, I bet I’ll be able to slide right in, no resistance.”

John digs his fingernails into the rough carpet, not trusting himself to speak.

“You really do want it bad, don’t you, John?”

John doesn’t answer, thinking the question is rhetorical, but Moriarty tugs at John’s hair and says,” I said, ‘don’t you John?’”

John hisses out a sharp “yes.”

“‘Yes,’ what?”

“Yes, I want it bad.”

“Want what?” asks Moriarty. He presses his cock just above and below John’s hole, missing the mark that John is slowly, desperately, wanting it to hit.

“I want your cock!” yells John, his voice sounding embarrassingly needy in the quiet room. His face heats at it, but he dimly notes that his need is probably more apparent in the stiffness of his cock and the deepening arch of his back.

“Thought so,” says Moriarty, just before he pushes into John, mercilessly, with a sharp snap of his hips.

John takes in the other man easily, his insides giving way to Moriarty’s hard flesh. Almost of its own volition, his belly sinks closer to the ground and his arse eagerly ruts against Moriarty in an attempt to gain some rhythm, but Moriarty is still and he puts a pacifying hand on the small of John’s back.

Something feels off. Something more that John’s unavoidable pleasure. That much is not a surprise. He had been experiencing a hypersexuality that even he couldn’t deny was linked to Moriarty’s visit to the flat. He supposes that he should be more furious, disgusted, and addled like he was the last time, but he’d grown tired of it all. Mrs. Hudson’s nagging. Greg’s pandering. Molly’s stupid, high-school pining. Moriarty’s theatrics. Mycroft’s theatrics. Sherlock’s theatrics. Sherlock.

He couldn’t look Sherlock in the face without wanting to do something violent to the other man. And he was never sure how that violence would manifest itself. There was a moment last week—it was past midnight and John had walked into the bathroom thinking Sherlock was tinkering with something downstairs only to find Sherlock leaning against the sink and brushing his teeth. It was nothing out of the ordinary. John had walked in on Sherlock pissing and showering before, but the way Sherlock’s robe hung loosely around his shoulders and the way he scraped at his teeth with half-earnestness-–it was a softer, quieter moment of Sherlock’s that John just wanted to break.

He wanted to push Sherlock into the tub, or slam him against the bathroom wall so that the metal towel rack dug into Sherlock’s back. He also wanted to get on his knees in front of Sherlock and coax all manner of sounds from the other man.

John was confused and angry. He had been so angry and he figured the best thing to do would be to give in. Moriarty wasn’t hurting him. In fact, he’d been surprisingly gentle. Why not enjoy it? Why not enjoy this? It was a compliment really. John didn’t figure Moriarty as the type that did seconds, but here he was, cock hard and full, lodged inside John’s arse.

John is no genius, he knows that much, but he gets people. He might not understand people’s motivations, but he knows how to handle people. That was why he and Sherlock got along: John knew that what Sherlock needed from a friend was one part admiration, one part ambivalence, and one part unshakableness.

Maybe Moriarty needed something similar and maybe that was why the criminal consultant’s focus had suddenly shifted from Sherlock to John.

John was just warming up to this idea when Moriarty abruptly pulled out of him and yanked John up by his hair so that he was standing upright on his knees.

“Make no mistake, Johnny boy,” he said pulling John’s head back so that his breath warmed John’s ear. “This is nothing. You’re just a convenient piece of arse.”

John didn’t dare turn his head back to look at the other man, but he did bring his hands to Moriarty’s hips and pulled them forward so that the man’s cock was neatly nestled in the cleft of John’s arse.

“Right,” says John, his voice markedly raspy. “Convenient enough that you went through all the trouble of bringing armed men.

A soft voice to the side of them clears its voice. “And armed women, thank you very much.”

John had almost forgotten she was there. He’d begun to think of Moriarty’s people as an abstraction. Ghosts that only made themselves known when Moriarty wanted them to. John was so wrapped up in his musings about Moriarty and Sherlock that he forgot a gun was being pointed at him and Sherlock. Sherlock.

“Your BFF is fine,” says Moriarty, dragging out the word “fine.” He pushes John back onto his knees and lines his cock up at John’s entrance. “In fact, he’ll be joining us shortly.”

John’s body turns rigid with fear. Sherlock couldn’t come in here. He couldn’t see John like this. Pathetic and wet and begging for it from the man who raped him not too long ago. John feels slight pressure as Moriarty presses the tip of his cock into John’s entrance. He moves into John, inch by inch, until John envelops the whole of his cock.

“There it is,” says Moriarty. “It’s so much better when you’re tense, John.”

He plants his hand on either side of John’s hips and pushes in and out, speeding up till he reaches a rhythm that has John’s insides burning. John tries to bring his cock towards the carpet to get the friction that he’s aching for. He doesn’t dare take himself in hand.

“You’re positively dripping for it John,” says Moriarty as he pulls out again. “Lie on the ground. Face down.”

John does so and presses his cheek against the prickly carpet. It smells of cigarette ash and expensive shoes. Moriarty asks the armed women to toss him a pillow from one of the couches. He then tells John to bring his hips up and places the pillow beneath John’s groin. The pillow is too soft for John to get a satisfying degree of friction from, but he grinds his cock into it anyway.

John hears the soft thud of Moriarty’s knees hitting the carpet. He feels hands forcefully part his arse cheeks and then Moriarty’s cock drives home hitting John’s prostate with such force and accuracy that John is certain he looses his hearing for a second.

He groans deeply and, past the point of giving a fuck, he begs Moriarty to fuck him harder. The man generously obliges, and every time he gifts John with the full brunt of his cock, John’s knees skid across the carpet a little.

Moriarty’s body presses in all around him and the other man’s clothing sticks to the light sheen that is coating John’s skin. He leans over John’s shoulder and gives John a love bite, which he then follows with an even more unforgiving one. He holds a good chunk of John’s skin between his teeth as he pivots his cock in and out of John.

John doesn’t remember moving his hand towards Moriarty’s head, but he must’ve because he has a fistful of the other man’s hair clutched between his fingers. He’s all too aware of the way his body is rocking upward into Moriarty so that when the consulting criminal bears down on him, John meets him in the middle.

He keens, loudly, and spreads his legs further apart, giving Moriarty even more room to work with. His lips have gone dry and he licks them slowly, reveling in the feel of his tongue and the heady taste of Moriarty’s cock that lingers on his mouth. This is the best fuck he’s had in ages. He doesn’t give a fuck who’s on the other end. All John knows is that a satisfyingly thick cock was doing a commendable job of making John’s arsehole feel whole.

And then Sherlock walks in.

 

 

Sherlock is shepherded into a back room with a sharp push. His escorts crowd around him and enter the room with him. He has a plan to take them out: hit the back of the man’s weak knee and take the woman out at her ankles. He thinks he can do it, get their guard down as he talks Moriarty up, but his plan flies out of the window once he sees the other woman in the room. The one that has a gun leveled at John’s head.

What he also wasn’t expecting was for John to look like he was enjoying himself.

His friend was completely bare. He’d seen John naked before, had even walked in on him masturbating once. John was supposed to be at work and Sherlock had walked into his flatmates room to borrow a shirt to wear for a messy experiment he was planning to undertake. Sherlock had already stained a number of his designer shirts and he didn’t want to risk ruining another one. He walked in to find John dressed in nothing but a t-shirt, with one hand braced against the wall and another working between his legs.

“Sherlock,” said John, the exasperation in his voice overpowered by lust. Sherlock had never heard his name uttered that way before. It shot straight to his groin and made his tongue feel heavy.

“I thought you were at work,” he said dumbly and watched John’s hand move across his cock in firm, efficient strokes.

“Do you mind,” said John finally when he realized Sherlock wasn’t leaving.

They didn’t talk about it after, which was a surprise to Sherlock who had expected a lecture about privacy. John just greeted him the next morning with averted eyes and said, “Just knock next time, okay.”

He thought he’d seen the full spectrum of John. But he had never seen this. Not John, digging his toes into the carpet and bracing his thighs and clenching his arse muscles around his enemy's cock.

For a moment, he is stricken by the thought that John would probably be better off with Moriarty. Yes, Moriarty was changeable and a psychopath, but Sherlock sensed that Jim took care of what was his. And the way John is presently clinging to the other man, he very much looks like he’s his.

Still, there is a gun pointed at John’s head. That’s a problem.

“Let him go,” Sherlock says, once he’s able to swallow down the shock.

“Or what? You’ll get your brother,” mocks Moriarty. He is keeping John’s head down with a straight and sturdy arm.

Sherlock curls his fingers into a fist. “Or I’ll kill you,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.

He knows John and Moriarty are roughly the same height, but John’s naked frame looks very small beneath Moriarty’s clothed body.

“Either you take a seat, or I’ll have his brains blown out.”

“You won’t do that.”

“And why is that?”

“Because this isn’t about getting to me anymore,” says Sherlock. “This is about pleasure.”

Moriarty’s face hardens and his lips turn thin. “Pleasure comes cheap, Sherlock. Cheaper than a defunct army doctor.”

“Then go find it somewhere else,” says Sherlock.

“No,” says John in a mangled voice, still facing the floor. “It’s fine, Sherlock.”

Moriarty smirks at Sherlock. “You know what I like about your John, Sherlock? Not his steadfastness or his sense of humor. Not even his skill with a gun.” He slides his hands to John’s sides, gripping the fat just above John’s hipbones. “What I like about John is this bit of meat right here. It’s very considerate of him to give me something to hold on to. But that’s just John, isn’t it? Mr. Considerate.”

“'Like' is a strange word to use about someone you strapped Semtex to,” says Sherlock.

“Oh that. That was just to get your attention. I think I already have your attention now.” He punctuates his sentence by thrusting into John with a sharp jerk of his hips. It makes John mewl, and Sherlock can’t tell if the sound is one of pleasure or pain.

“What do you want?” asks Sherlock.

“I want you to watch me get your pet off.” He continues moving against John, his hips moving in slow, languid circles. “Won’t be long now.”

His hand snakes into John’s hair and tugs, pulling John’s whole body up with it.

John doesn’t look so small anymore. His legs are spread wide in a v-shape and his chest is slightly raised. Every inch of John’s body seems awake. His nipples are hard and darkened, his lips swollen, and his cock an angry red and at full mast, obscenely bobbing up and down as Moriarty fucks him.

Moriarty brings his mouth to John’s ear and says, “Eyes open, Johnny. And keep them on him.”

John’s eyes snap open and meet Sherlock’s. John’s eyes are dark. Darker than Sherlock has ever seen them and the desire there is impossible to miss. There’s also a great deal of shame there—and accusation.

John seems to come to a decision about something and raises his head up, his eyes boring into Sherlock’s. He keeps his eyes open, only letting them flutter shut for half a second when Moriarty moves inside of him.

They completely fall shut when Moriarty’s hand skirts across John’s scar. He repeats the motion, digging his thumb into the raised lines. It makes John buck backwards, once, twice, and he gives an appreciative hum and throws his head back.

A low, sweet ache settles in Sherlock’s belly. John’s body was like a finely tuned violin that responded beautifully to touch. Sherlock longed to lean over and feel it. To trace John’s collarbones. To run his fingers through the soft-looking thatch of curls around the shaft of John’s cock. He wanted to pin down John like a butterfly and catalogue all of his reactions.

But Moriarty beat him to it.

Something about Moriarty touching a part of John that Sherlock hadn’t even had the chance to properly examine makes Sherlock’s chest constrict. Moriarty seems all too aware of this and he gives Sherlock a smug smirk. He holds Sherlock’s gaze as he thrusts deeply into John and bows his head to give the scar a long swipe with his tongue. Moriarty’s tongue is sharp and persistent and he licks the scar like he’s the one who put it there.

“I think someone feels left out,” says Moriarty into John’s shoulder. “Would you like to join us, Sherlock?”

Sherlock knows what Moriarty is playing at, and it’s a bit pedestrian. “No,” he says.

“Not good enough for you?” says Moriarty, his voice determined. “Not like Irene.”

John flinches at the name, and for a second, Sherlock regrets not telling John about saving Irene. But life at 221B had been so pleasant after Mycroft had mistakenly told John that Irene had been killed. John had been exceedingly compliant and amiable, letting all of Sherlock's transgressions slide. All Sherlock had to do was stare off in the distance for a minute and lower the corners of his lips and John was immediately at his side asking if he wanted to go out, have tea, play Cluedo.  
  
And John had started touching Sherlock a lot more. Gone was John's staunch avoidance of doing anything that might make it seem like he was more than Sherlock's flatmate. John had taken to leaning in close to whisper in Sherlock's ear, placing a hand on his mid-back to get Sherlock's attention, even going as far as slipping a finger through Sherlock's belt loop to drag his flatmate away from a heated argument with Donovan.

It pleased Sherlock to no end.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” says Sherlock.

“No,” says Moriarty, “but you did save her life. And then forgot to mention it to your only friend. I’d say that was just at bad. Wouldn’t you, John?” He leans back to take in John’s reaction as he says the last part.

John looks away from Moriarty and Sherlock, turning his face to the side.

Moriarty grabs John’s chin and forces him to look at him. “I asked you a question, John.”

“It’s bad,” says John in a small voice.

“I didn’t – I didn’t say anything for her own safety,” says Sherlock. “If someone found out, she’d be in a lot of danger.”

“How many nights did you spend awake worrying about your friend,” Moriarty asks John.

He starts pushing into John again, sliding in and out of the man with an irregular rhythm. John is nearly spent, his need spelled out clearly, but there is a slump to his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

“Please,” begs John.

“Please, what?”

“Finish it.”

“Very well,” says Moriarty. “But only because you asked nicely.”

 

 

Moriarty picks up the pace and reams into him. John bites his tongue and reaches behind him latching onto Moriarty’s thighs to keep his balance.

Moriarty nestles his nose into John’s neck, inhaling deeply. He rakes his teeth up John’s neck and nibbles at John’s ear lobe. His breath is hot and heavy in John’s ear and he whispers, “ride me,” in a voice that makes John’s cock twitch.

John nods feverishly and sets up a slow pace. He forces himself to forget about Sherlock, about Moriarty, and the man that was killed roughly three feet from where John is right now. He gives in to the sensation of the hard flesh stretching him. He bounces up and down, his arse taking in the offered cock eagerly.

His breath is labored and he fucks himself vigorously, clenching his arse cheeks around Moriarty. There is a deep, guttural groan behind him and then a warm wetness filling John’s inside. It’s enough to make John follow suit, and he comes, hard and messily, all over his thighs and the carpet.

He sags forward, exhausted, Moriarty’s softening cock slipping out of him. His body is threatening to tip over when a pair of hands hold him up at the waist. He expects to see Sherlock when he looks up, his friend's hands wrapped around him, but he realizes that the hands are holding him from behind. They pull his body flush against another and John feels a damp press of lips against his cheek.

“Gotcha,” says Moriarty.

John looks up to find Sherlock, lips slightly parted, looking like someone told him that crime had been eliminated and that he’d never, ever get to solve another case ever again.

 

 

 

 


End file.
